


Almost the Fool

by wesleyfanfiction_archivist



Category: Angel: the Series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-07-12
Updated: 2005-07-12
Packaged: 2018-05-31 10:29:38
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,779
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6466765
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/wesleyfanfiction_archivist/pseuds/wesleyfanfiction_archivist
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Giles visits L.A. Pub is frequented, beer is drunk, darts are played. Fences are mended.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Almost the Fool

**Author's Note:**

> Note from Versaphile, the archivist: this story was originally archived at [WesleyFanfiction.net](http://fanlore.org/wiki/WesleyFanFiction.Net). Deciding that it needed to have a more long-term home, I began importing its works to the AO3 as an Open Doors-approved project in February 2016. I e-mailed all creators about the move and posted announcements, but may not have reached everyone. If you are (or know) this creator, please contact the e-mail address on [WesleyFanfiction.net collection profile](http://archiveofourown.org/collections/wesleyfanfiction/profile).

SPOILERS: Summer following AtS Season 1 and BtVS Season 4.   
NOTES: Title and quote taken from ‘The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock’ by T.S. Eliot.

 

****

Almost the Fool

_No! I am not Prince Hamlet, nor was meant to be;_  
Am an attendant lord, one that will do  
To swell a progress, start a scene or two,  
Advise the price; no doubt, an easy tool,  
Deferential, glad to be of use,  
Politic, cautious, and meticulous;  
Full of high sentence, but a bit obtuse;  
At times, indeed  
Almost, at times, the Fool.  
(‘The Love Song of J. Alfred Prufrock’ – T.S. Eliot)

 

He paused at the top of the stairs and checked the address that Willow had given him. Not that he wanted to decry the acting abilities of Cordelia Chase, but he had understood that stardom had not come instantly to the former cheerleader, and he was fairly sure this was an upmarket part of the city, with rents to match. Perhaps the detective business was blossoming, he thought a little sourly, and walked over to the apartment.

He tapped lightly on the door and waited, going over in his mind what he wanted to say. 

_I was just wondering if you could give me his address, I did try calling, but your office line seems to be cut off, and I wondered if you’d moved premises._

He couldn’t blame Buffy really. It wasn’t as if she didn’t have other things on her mind at the time, but honestly, the casual way she just happened to mention it when they had been discussing Faith’s imminent incarceration. That she had apparently done _a bit of a number_ on Wesley. 

He recalled Wesley’s polite ‘phone call before Faith’s trial; the clipped precise vowels more relaxed than he remembered.

_No, they wouldn’t be called as witnesses. Her full confession had made the process much easier. Yes, thanks, they were all fine._

And absolutely no mention of the fact that this woman had tied him to a chair and tortured him. Apparently to goad Angel.

He knocked again, with more force than was needed, then tried the handle to see if the door was open.

“Cordelia? Hello?” He pushed down on the handle, but it jerked up hard, as if someone was holding it on the other side.

“Dennis, will you let go of the door,” someone sighed, and then the handle gave way. Giles was still hanging on to it as the door opened, and he fell heavily into the room, but more specifically, against a rather dazed-looking Wesley Wyndam-Pryce.

There were several things that went through his mind as he tried to regain his footing and his composure. The first thought was that Wesley looked as if he’d been in the wars. Or an actual war. There were cuts and bumps and burns and several patches of white gauze taped randomly over his face and arms. The second thought was that Wesley was no longer wearing his glasses; which led in turn to the third thought; that Wesley had the bluest eyes he’d ever seen. The fourth thought was that he really should make more of an effort to extricate himself from the accidental embrace of the other man, and make some sort of apology for his entrance.

“Good God, man, you look terrible!” was what he actually managed. Less apologetic than he’d intended, and certainly not particularly polite, considering their proximity. He straightened up, and wished he’d worn his glasses. He needed to polish his glasses.

“Wesley, I’m – I’m sorry, I didn’t mean that the way it sounded…” 

The other man was holding onto the door, and Giles wasn’t sure if Wesley had actually heard him.

“Mr Giles… what are… I mean, why are…” He stopped and blinked rapidly. “I’m sorry; you must think me terribly rude. Please come in.” He stepped back and held the door wide open. 

Giles couldn’t help it. It was just too tempting. He tutted in his best Senior Watcher voice.

“Oh, Wesley, forgotten your training so soon? Inviting me in untested.”

Wesley flushed pink, the very tips of his ears brightening. He raised his hand up to the bridge of his nose, intending to adjust non-existent glasses.

“I felt your heartbeat.” He stared at the ground, apparently finding Giles’ shoes incredibly absorbing.

“Ah.” Giles nodded, suddenly regretting the gibe.

“And also, you fell through the door, instead of bouncing off it. I’ve seen that happen to Angel a few times.” He glanced up, and gave a wistful little smile. “It’s actually quite funny to watch.” 

“I imagine it would be.” He smiled back at Wesley, who still held the door open politely. 

He came into the apartment and sat down on a low settee under the window. Wesley began to busy himself with tidying various books off the dining table, which seemed to be some sort of research area.

“I’m sorry about before. It’s just that Dennis has been rather jumpy about opening the door since… the incident with Faith.” Wesley closed a book carefully and set it on top of the pile.

Giles was reminded of his main reason for coming then, but the mention of another team member sidetracked him a little.

“Dennis? Does he work with you - with Angel?” 

Wesley laughed. “Dennis is Cordelia’s ghost. He came with the apartment. From what I understand it was actually his mother who was haunting the place originally. She walled him up alive in the apartment fifty years ago.” The largest book closed itself and floated over to Wesley. “Thank you, Dennis.” Wesley looked over at Giles again. “He seems quite content to remain here, even with the current situation. To be honest, I think he likes the company.”

“Nice to meet you, Dennis.” Giles wasn’t completely sure of the etiquette of introducing oneself to a sociable house ghost, so he raised his hand in a friendly half-wave, hoping it was appropriate. “Walled up alive. That was one of my greatest fears as a child. I’m afraid I read far too much Poe. Or watched too many Roger Corman films…” he admitted with an embarrassed grin. 

“I can’t imagine anything more dreadful.” Wesley whispered, almost to himself. Then he straightened his shoulders. “I’m sorry, here I am, waffling on about myself, and I haven’t even offered you tea.”

Giles shook his head. “I’m quite alright. Contrary to popular belief, I can go for several hours without tea before my brain ceases to function.” Wesley blushed again, and Giles softened his tone. “Thank you for the offer.” 

Wesley sat down in the armchair opposite, and Giles noticed a little flinch of pain.

“I wanted to talk to you about Faith.” 

Wesley sat up very straight and nodded. “Of course. You want to see her. I think Angel has the details around here somewhere…” He made as if to stand. “I’m sorry I didn’t send them to you earlier, but we’ve been all at sixes and sevens since – not that that’s any excuse…”

“Wesley.” He put on his sternest voice, the one that very occasionally earned him a sideways glance from one of the children before they carried on regardless. Wesley, of course, froze immediately. “I’m not here to visit Faith.”

“Oh.” The younger man sat down again, hissing a breath through clenched teeth as he leaned back in the chair.

“Are you alright? You seem to be in pain.” 

Wesley sighed very softly, and his shoulders drooped a little. “Really, Giles, I’m absolutely fine.”

“Have you looked in a mirror lately?” He was suddenly inexplicably angry with Wesley. “You are not fine. You look dreadful.”

“Oh, no. This isn’t from Faith.” Wesley’s fingers fluttered up to the white gauze taped across his cheekbone. “This is from the explosion.”

Wesley said it calmly, as if talking about a hangnail or a paper cut. From the explosion. And suddenly Giles connected the dots. The severed telephone connection, the returned mail.

“Your office?”

Wesley nodded. “It was my own fault really. I should have got out of there when I saw the damage to the weapons cupboard.”

“You were actually _in_ the office when the bomb went off?” 

“I’d made it to the stairs.” Wesley gave him a sheepish grin.

“You really are the most incredibly unlucky bastard I have ever met, you know that?” He couldn’t help but say it.

Wesley considered this. “Or the luckiest, depending on your point of view,” he returned, and gave him a smile of such gentle sadness that it made Giles’ heart ache.

“I think maybe I could do with a drink now, Wesley. And not tea. I don’t suppose Cordelia’s got a decent bottle of whisky around here?”

That got a grin of real amusement. “Not unless Mr Daniels has recently relocated to the Islands. There’s a pub a few blocks from here… it’s ex-pat, of course, hideously tacky, but they do have a reasonable selection of Islay malts, and they keep Theakstons on tap.” 

“Old Peculiar?” The feeling of desperate homesickness that overwhelmed him was quite unexpected. 

“Bottled, I’m afraid.” Giles wasn’t sure, but he thought Wesley might be making fun of him. Young whippersnapper. His look of shy smugness stirred up a memory; the first day they had met in the library, the desperately eager young watcher oh so full of condescending pleasantries. 

And Giles was suddenly reminded of how much he had missed Wesley Wyndam-Pryce. 

 

*~*~*~*

“One hundred and twenty-six to finish. Treble nineteen, single nineteen, bullseye.” 

The pub was indeed hideously tacky, but it had the advantage of being fairly quiet, the individual booths lending the place a cosy, even intimate atmosphere. It was early in the evening and they appeared to have the dart board and the back of the pub to themselves.

Giles leaned back against the studded leather and watched as the younger man took careful aim. The first dart landed firmly in the thin green line at the bottom of the board. Wesley barely reacted. He shifted his stance a little and the next dart hit the triangle of white beyond the first. He reached up to rub his hand over his collar bone, and Giles wondered why he’d never realized what an excellent shot Wesley was.

“If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were trying to hustle me. All that nonsense about being out of practice.” He paused and took a sip of his beer. “Next time, I’ll make you play with your other hand.”

Wesley swapped hands and tossed the final dart, landing it dead centre in the red bullseye. He turned back to Giles, unable to totally smother his gleeful grin. “Your round, I believe?”

Giles raised his eyebrow in admiration. “Ambidextrous?”

Wesley slipped into the seat opposite and drained the pint glass, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

‘Not exactly. I broke my collar bone during fencing practice when I was a boy. I wasn’t able to support the weight of a crossbow for quite some time, and my father was rather adamant that my training schedule not be disrupted. So…” He waggled his left hand. “I learned quickly.”

“The joys of a Watcher’s childhood.” Giles could identify a little with Wesley’s story, though his own father had never pushed him quite to that extent. 

“Indeed.” There was a dryness to Wesley’s tone, and an oddly wistful look on his face, but the arrival of the next round distracted them both, and by the time Giles had settled the tab, Wesley’s expression was carefully composed. 

“Do you fancy a game of snooker to even the score?”

Wesley gave a short bark of laughter. “Even I’m not such a fool as to fall for that one.”

“Whatever do you mean?” His pathetic protests of ignorance sounded insincere, even to his own ears.

“Your prowess was legendary, Ripper,” Wes leaned on the last word, trilling the ‘r’ just a little. “Sixth Form Common Room champion, two years running. And they used to talk about you in hushed tones down at the Spread Eagle.”

“You drank at the Spread?” He couldn’t keep the incredulity out of his voice. The mental image of eager young watcher-in-waiting getting royally pissed in that wonderful spit and sawdust pub made him want to giggle. 

“Don’t sound so shocked. I did have a life, you know.” He deflated a bit. “Just not a very exciting one.” Wesley looked down at the table, and rubbed his finger over the tiny pockmarks in the polished wood, left by less skilled darts players. “I… was rather envious of you.” 

He said it so quietly Giles wasn’t sure he’d heard correctly. By all accounts, Wesley had been the Council’s golden boy. He’d been their star pupil, the perfect head boy, the expert linguist. The good little lamb to his black sheep. And it was as if he’d discovered the solution to the Times cryptic crossword. Sacrifice. The Council had known he wasn’t ready, and they’d sent him anyway. Set the poor man up to fail. 

“You rebelled against them. I toed the line, did what I was told. Never dared question h… them.” Wesley’s voice was full of self disgust. 

Giles made his voice very gentle. “I went back, Wesley. In the end I conformed. Became the Watcher they wanted me to be.”

“No!” His protest was vicious in its intensity. “You were never _their_ watcher. You were Buffy’s watcher.” His voice dropped. “And she was lucky to have you.” 

“Wesley…” He wasn’t sure what he wanted to say.

“Unlike Faith.”

No. He didn’t like the way this was going, not one little bit.

“Wesley, Faith made her choices. Don’t flatter yourself into thinking you were responsible for her defection.” He made his reprimand purposely harsh.

Wesley gave a short laugh, entirely devoid of humour. “No, because that would mean my influence actually counted for something. God forbid that I should actually matter to someone.”

She had tortured him, to get Angel’s attention. 

Giles reached out, placed his hand over the restless fingers that worried at the scarred wood. “I’m sorry.”

Wesley looked up, and Giles was relieved to see anger in his eyes. “What for? You didn’t put me in that chair. You didn’t torture me.”

“I’m sorry she did that to you.” His gentle words seemed to break Wesley. 

“When Angel… when he came in, I was just so desperately grateful that he cared.” His voice wavered a little. “I know she needed him. He had to save her. I know that.” He sounded as if he was trying to convince himself.

Giles thought of Buffy’s lie; of the hot selfish anger that had flooded him when he discovered her secret. She had seen what Angelus had done to him, and still she chose to be with Angel. That had hurt him more than he cared to admit.

“Wesley, you have a right to feel angry.” 

The brief shake of his head made Giles want to slap at the fingers below his palm, to somehow stir him to justified rage.

“You do. Take it from one who knows.”

Wesley raised his head enquiringly, but Giles shook his head. He wasn’t about to get into his issues with Angel here.

Wesley bent his head again, and when he spoke, his voice was barely a whisper. “I…I thought she was going to kill me.”

“I know.” He stroked the trembling fingers gently, soothing them. 

“And then I saw them in the alley and they weren’t fighting any more. She was crying and he was just holding her. I’m not sure they even noticed me.”

Giles clasped his hand around Wesley’s and felt the other man squeeze back gratefully, and at that moment Giles hated Angel almost as much as he hated Angelus. 

“That’s part of the job description, I suppose,” Wesley said softly. “We watch. We’re not supposed to be noticed.” 

Giles heart constricted, but he kept his tone light. “You do realize, of course, that neither of us is in the Council’s employ any longer.”

Wesley’s answering smile was tinged with sadness. “I was not unaware of that fact, Mr Giles.”

In the secluded darkness of the booth, Giles leaned over and slipped his hand behind Wesley’s neck, pulling him close. He pressed his lips to Wesley’s and the other man responded unresistingly, the taste of bitter hops sweet in his mouth. Giles leaned back a little, enough to see surprised delight in those blue eyes.

“Mr – um, I mean Giles, what was… not that I didn’t like it, of course, but it’s just that…”

Giles placed a finger against Wesley’s lips, effectively stalling his faltering words.

“It’s time you were noticed, Wesley Wyndam-Pryce.”


End file.
